Софи Райан - The Whole Cat Аnd Caboodle

We ate for a couple of minutes in silence, cut only by our little murmurs of satisfaction. If there was fish chowder that was better than Sam’s, I hadn’t tasted it yet.

Jess set down her spoon and reached for a biscuit. “So, how does the naked seventy-five-year-old man fit into this?” she asked.

I laughed. “He doesn’t, really. Remember I told you I was doing a workshop for a bunch of Gram’s friends down at the seniors’ apartment building?”

Her mouth was full so all she did was nod.

“Well, it turns out there’s an art class there at the same time.”

Jess nodded and brushed crumbs off the corner of her mouth. “Isn’t Eric teaching some kind of drawing class?”

“That’s it,” I said, scooping up a fat scallop with my spoon. “Do you know Alfred Peterson?”

“Little bald man? Pants are always up under his armpits?”

I nodded.

Jess paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Wait a minute. You saw Mr. Peterson naked?”

I nodded again.

“Did he know?”

“That he was naked or that I saw him?”

Jess thought for a moment. “Both.”

I fished a chunk of red-skinned potato out of the bowl and ate it. “Yes and yes.”

“So Eric’s class is drawing nudes and Mr. Peterson is their model?”

“Not exactly,” I said. I leaned sideways and looked around the room. Sam had just come from the kitchen. He gave me a sheepish grin when I caught his eye, and started over.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he got close to the table, holding up both hands as though he was surrendering. “I really did think Alf knew Eric was just going to have the class draw hands.” He was trying to keep the grin in check but it wasn’t working. “Was he really completely . . . ?” The end of the sentence trailed off.

“In all his glory,” I said solemnly.

Sam laughed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. If I’d had any idea that Alf didn’t know, I would have told him. I swear.”

“I believe you,” I said. “I think.”

“Are you playing Thursday night?” Jess asked. In the off-season the house band—Sam’s band—played most Thursday nights with whoever was around and wanted to sit in.

He nodded. “Are you two coming?”

Jess looked at me.

“I think so,” I said.

“We’ll be here,” Jess said.

“What if I have a date Thursday night?”

“You on a date.” Jess tipped her head to one side, a thoughtful expression on her face as she studied me. After a moment she turned back to Sam. “Not likely. We’ll be here,” she repeated, reaching for a biscuit.

“Good,” Sam said. He turned to me again. “Mac said you might have an old fiddle you’re going to need an estimate on in a few days.”

“Looks like it,” I said.

“Okay, well Vincent knows a guy up in Limestone. So let me know and I’ll set something up.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I need to get back to the kitchen. There’s rhubarb-strawberry pie, if you’re interested.”

Jess’s eyes lit up. “I may possibly love you, Sam.”

Sam laughed and headed back to the kitchen.

I was just spooning up the last bit of creamy broth from the bottom of my bowl when Katie, our waitress, appeared with pie and coffee for both Jess and me.

“Mmmm,” Jess moaned after her first bite. “Why doesn’t my pie ever turn out this good?”

I took a sip from my cup. “I can tell you, but you aren’t going to like the answer.”

She licked flakes of pastry from the back of her fork. “It’s not going to be something corny, like Sam makes it with a song on his lips and love in his heart, is it?”

“Uh, no,” I said, taking another bite and wondering if I could taste a hint of vanilla in the filling. “It’s lard.”

“Lard?” Jess frowned, her mouth twisted to one side.

“Uh-huh.”

I could almost see the gears and cogs turning in her head. “Lard is animal fat,” she said.

I nodded.

Her expression cleared. “Okay. Animal fat means ‘meat.’ Meat is a source of protein. Protein is part of a healthy diet. I’m good.” She used her fork to spear another bite.

I reached for my coffee cup again. “You can rationalize pie but you couldn’t rationalize a corn chip?”

“Yeah, the human mind is a funny thing, isn’t it?” she said, around a mouthful of berries and rhubarb.

“Did you know Nick Elliot is working for the medical examiner’s office?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

Jess looked up from her plate. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

“I thought he was taking a job teaching an EMT course.”

I shrugged. “I guess he changed his mind.”

“So how does Nick look these days?” Jess asked teasingly.

“Fine,” I replied, maybe a little too quickly.

She smirked at me over her mug. “Only fine?”

“Well, maybe . . . very fine,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks redden.

“I knew it,” Jess crowed, waving her fork in the air almost as though she were conducting an imaginary symphony orchestra.

“Okay, so Nick is a very good-looking man. The fact that I noticed it doesn’t mean anything. I can appreciate that just the way I’d appreciate a beautiful sunset over the harbor or a well-made guitar.

Jess leaned back against the padded vinyl. “Good thing I wore my boots,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes at her across the table. “What are you talking about?” I said.

“Good thing I wore my boots,” she repeated, “because all that bull crap you’re spreading would have ruined my new shoes.”

I made a face and she laughed.

“Getting involved with Nick Elliot. Now, there would be a bad idea,” I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup.

Jess shrugged. “What’s so bad about it?”

“Well, he just started a new job; that’s going to be pretty stressful. I’m trying to get a business off the ground, and, as you like to point out, all I do these days is work.” I held up a hand because I could tell from Jess’s face that she was about to mount an argument to try to refute my objections. “And don’t forget, Nick’s mother works for me.” I raised my eyebrows at her.

Jess pressed her lips together and after a moment she sighed. “Okay, you win. I don’t have anything.”

“How about you and Nick?” I said.

She shook her head. “He is not my type.”

“Oh, really?” I set my cup back on the table and folded my arms across my chest. “And your type would be?”

She tilted her head back and looked up at the hammered-tin ceiling, putting one hand to her throat. “I like the sensitive, artistic type, the kind of man with the soul of a poet.”

“Good thing I wore my boots,” I said dryly.

Jess laughed.

I was so glad Jess was still in North Harbor. She was always bugging me about spending too much time working, but the truth was that without her dragging me out with the three-dimensional people, as she put it, I would have spent all of my time at the shop, working on the house or looking for new business.

We spent the next ten minutes or so with Jess catching me up on town gossip. Her sewing space and the little shop where she sold her repurposed clothing were right down on the waterfront and, like Sam, she knew everything that was happening in North Harbor.

As we got up to leave, Jess glanced at the woman in the booth behind us. She was still wearing the Red Sox baseball cap with bits of flaming red hair poking out from underneath, but she’d taken off the sunglasses for a moment and was rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger.

Jess tipped her head in the woman’s direction. “If I can get tickets, do you want to drive down to Portland for a Sea Dogs playoff game?”